


Collecting Strays

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Series: Lover Be Good To Me [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Arthur Is The Mom Friend™ - Little Brother Edition, Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Polyamory, Pre-Relationship, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27990204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: It's a habit Arthur's never been able to break. But every now and then, it leads to something good.
Relationships: Elyan/Gwaine/Percival (Merlin), Freya/Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gwen/Lancelot/Leon (Merlin), Morgana & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Lover Be Good To Me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044864
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	Collecting Strays

His sister is calling him.

Arthur squints balefully at his mobile, wondering if it's even worth answering. It'd be weirder if it was Ghost instead of Gana—personalised ringtones, wonderful things—but he hasn't heard from either of them in six months, and they've never been the first ones to break radio silence. Goddamnit. Arthur scrubs at his eyes one-handed, groping over his bedside table until he finds the damn mobile, sliding his thumb across the screen to answer. "The fuck you want?" Polite stops at midnight.

_"Arthur?"_

"No, it's Morgan Freeman, you got some bones that need collecting?"

_"Can you come over?"_

He holds his mobile in place with his shoulder, freeing his hand to press the button on the side of his watch that made the numbers light up. "It's one in the fucking morning."

_"Arthur, please."_

"I told you I'm not going to that fucking Jim Jones compound again," he snaps, rubbing a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to just pitch the stupid mobile across the room. Or maybe out the window.

_"I'm not at the Guild. Please, I…I need help."_

Arthur snorts through his nose, sitting up and reaching over to flick on his bedside lamp. "And that is my problem how?"

The silence on the other end of the line is long before he hears the crackling static of a sigh. " _I know we haven't…. This isn't about me and you, alright? Will you come down, please?"_

A part of him wants to refuse, say _no, whatever you want, no,_ but he can't remember the last time he heard Gana so rattled, nor the last time she'd ever said the word _please_ to him more than once in a conversation. "Fine, fucking _fine._ Where are you?"

_"I'm at Obsidian Butterfly."_

Arthur blinks, and even though she's not there to see it, he's got an expression of _'what the fuck'_ all over. Gana's ragged on him often enough about his job, and now she's waiting for him at the club? "I'll be there in a while."

_"Thank you, Arthur."_

He drops the mobile on the bedspread and glares at it a moment. Obsidian Butterfly isn't that far. He could be there and back before sunup if he took Merlin's bike. "Bollocks," he mutters.

Throwing off the blankets, he puts on the jeans and t-shirt he'd been wearing before he went to bed. He reaches for the leather jacket he wears when he takes the bike, then stops. Opening his closet, he takes the shoulder holster from the hook on the door where normal people would hang ties, shrugs it on, then opens the heavy lockbox under his trainers. He keeps two different clips for the Firestar, one with lead bullets, the other with silver. The silver clip goes in his pocket, the lead clip goes in the Firestar, which then goes in the holster. As an afterthought, he fastens on one of the wrist sheaths and fits a knife in it. Does he need this much hardware to go visit his sister? Probably not. Is he going to take it anyways? Definitely yes.

The flat is dark, hushed in that unique after-midnight way. Arthur measures his steps out carefully, minding where the floor squeaks, until he reaches the kitchen. Merlin hides the spare key to his motorcycle under the cutlery drawer after an unfortunate incident involving Gwaine, a bottle of Baccardi, and a total of eighteen stitches. To his knowledge, he, Gwen, and Freya are the only other people who know where it is. Key in hand, he heads outside.

Obsidian Butterfly is one of those clubs that doesn't open until ten at night and doesn't close until four in the morning; it's also a club that caters almost exclusively to fae folk and other non-humans. There's a permanent notice-me-not glamour anchored around the building, so anyone lily-human would walk right on past it without even noticing it was there, and even if it was pointed out to them, it'd slide off their senses.

When he gets there, there's a few people lounging outside smoking, club-goers if the amalgamation of sheer tops, skintight trousers, and fuck-me heels are any indication, and Fredo is working the door. He's the only man Arthur knows who can deadlift more than Percival, and it shows, black shirt pushing the limits of its elasticity over his chest and biceps. "Upstairs, red room," Fredo says without Arthur even needing to ask, shifting aside to let him through the door.

"Cheers, mate."

"She single?"

Arthur snorts, unbothered because he knows full well Fredo's taking the piss. "Lesbian."

"Good ones always are."

To a degree, all nightclubs are alike, at least in Arthur's opinion. The only thing that really changes is the DJ, the price of drinks, and the choice of entertainment. And in Obsidian Butterfly, there's leather-clad dancers on little elevated platforms, flicking slender tails and arching narrow wings. Sometimes, they'll tilt their heads back and blow out a silvery mist from pursed lips to drift down over the nearest patrons. Humans would call it a neat trick to go with a neat costume; Arthur thinks that having succubi and incubi use their breath on customers is riding a fine legal line. Good thing it isn't his job to worry about it.

Upstairs are the private rooms. There isn't exactly a 'membership' deal here, more like a pay-to-play. Only people with a big enough bankroll can get upstairs. The red room is aptly named, given that the overall colour theme of the room is a deep wine red, accented with black. It's mostly open, with a pair of matched sofas facing the open space in the middle. He's fairly certain one's for watching the show and the other's for shagging on. No fun sitting in the damp spot, after all.

Gana turns to face him the moment he opens the door; if he didn't know her better, he'd think she'd been pacing the room waiting. There's someone else sitting on one of the couches. Reflex almost has him drawing his knife, but in the next instant, he realises it's Mordred. And Mordred is soaking wet and shaking so hard the water beading on his hair trembles. Arthur can't quite keep the surprise off his face when Mordred launches up off the sofa and at him for a full-body hug, arms clutched tight around him. "Hey," he says, at a loss for what else to say.

"I wasn't sure you'd come," Mordred says in a small voice, muffled in the leather of Arthur's jacket.

"Why wouldn't—Jesus _Christ,"_ Arthur exhales as Mordred leans away and he gets his first real look at the young man. Someone's beaten him to hell, a raccoon mask of dark bruises around his eyes, one swollen half-shut, lip split on one side, a still-raw cut across his forehead. There's blood splattered all down the front of his shirt, more bruises edging out from beneath his collar. "What happened? Who did this? Who did this to you?" Arthur demands, reaching up to cup Mordred's face, tilting his head to inspect the damage.

"That's why I called you," Gana says, arms folded. She must've regained her composure after their call, because there's nothing about her to suggest she'd called him at one in the morning and asked for help, not a hair out of place or a wrinkle to be seen.

"What, to cut the bollocks off who ever did this?" he retorts. Though it doesn't sound like a bad idea right now. Mordred's shifted to stand beside him, huddled over a little so he'd fit under Arthur's arm. He must've felt the gun under the jacket, too, because he stands on the other side. Smart kid.

A muscle in her jaw tightens. "No. That doesn't concern you. It isn't your business," she replies, and there's that stress again, something pulled tight under her layer of cool-calm-and-collected.

He can't believe this. "Someone turned him into mashed potato, and you're going to tell me it's not my business?"

She takes a breath and opens her mouth as if to snap back at him, but then something shutters behind her gaze. "Mordred, will you wait in the hall?" she asks instead. "I need to speak to my brother privately."

Arthur feels another shiver go through him, not from cold. "If he gets caught outside one of the rooms, they'll think he got past security," he says. "Go wait outside with Fredo. Tell him you're with me, he'll look after you. I'll be out in a moment."

Mordred hesitates a moment, looking up at Arthur with nervous eyes before slipping out from under his arm. He casts another of those skittish glances back at them from the door, flicking from Arthur to Gana and back again before he steps out, closing the door behind him.

"What the _fuck,_ Gana? Not my business, are you fucking kidding me?"

She grabs him by the arm then, digging her nails in hard enough to hurt, even through his jacket. "It _isn't_ your business, Arthur. It _can't_ be your business because I _can't_ tell you about it."

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't. Can't because if I do, then worse than _that_ will happen to me. It's the Council's business," Morgana snaps, but as soon as her anger comes, it seems to go, shoulders slumping, head hanging. When she looks up at him, there's a weariness in her silvery-green eyes he's never seen before, a world-worn tiredness. "I would tell you if I could, Arthur, but I can't. I'm sorry. But Mordred…he can't stay with me any longer. He needs someplace to go."

"Why me?" he demands. She has to at least answer him that.

"Ask him. I asked him who I should call, and he said you."

He snorts, folding his arms. "Figures. I should've known you wouldn't call me first. Learnt that one well, didn't you?"

That gets him unfriendly eyes. "Will you look after him or not?"

 _Fuck yourself_ is right there, but he bites down on it, folding his arms over his chest. "The Council," he says instead, meaning the Council of Elders that headed the Sorcerer's Guild of London. "They put him out, that it?"

That's certainly it, judging by the way she flinches just the slightest bit around her eyes.

"I _told you_ that place was a bad idea. I've told the both of you—"

"Yes, I know," Gana snaps, cutting him off, but then she rubs both hands over her arms, one hand drifting up to play with one of her earrings. It's a nervous tic he hasn't seen from her in years. "Will you look after him?" she asks again, softer this time.

"Yeah. Yeah, alright."

She gives a deep sigh, like she's held a breath too long. "Thank you."

"Are you going to be all right?"

"Yes. It isn't me they exiled."

"Fine." Arthur turns towards the door, then stops, hand on the knob. He gives a soft sigh of his own. "Gana."

"What?"

He slips the knife out of the wrist sheath and flips it around to hold it by the blade, hilt out towards her. She stares at it a moment, then reaches out, grasping the hilt. He keeps hold of the blade a moment longer so she has to pull a little. "Be careful," he says, letting go.

She looks down at the knife in her hand, the blade reflecting a pale slash of light back on her face. "You could call," she murmurs without looking up at him.

"So could you."

And he's out the door and heading downstairs.

Mordred doesn't say a word to him the entire way back, clutching Arthur like he's the last tether to reality. When Arthur brings him up the stairs to their flat, letting him in with a hushed, "Hell, sweet hell," the kid doesn't so much as crack a smile, shuffling in a few steps and standing in place, dripping onto the rug.

It's on the tip of Arthur's tongue to ask why the hell he's soaked, but he closes his mouth on the question. Any more non-answers, and he's really going to be pissed. "Any of that stuff dry?" he asks instead, eyeing the battered knapsack Mordred carries doubtfully; water drips from the heavy canvas cloth.

Mordred gives his head a small shake, arms clutched tight around himself, still shivering all over.

Arthur reaches up to scrub a hand over the nape of his neck. Goddammit, Gana. "Okay, well, some of my stuff should fit you alright until we can put all that through the dryer," he says at last; Mordred nods once but doesn't move from his spot. Listening for any sound of movement from anyone else, he goes back to his room and finds an old hoodie and a pair of pyjama bottoms; he also takes the chance to put the Firestar back in the lockbox and take off the shoulder holster, shutting his closet door. When he steps back out, Mordred hasn't moved.

"Hey," he murmurs as he approaches; Mordred jerks as if he'd been slapped, looking up at him with wide eyes. "Here. These'll fit you. There's spare towels in the bathroom closet." Arthur presses the dry clothes into his hands.

Mordred shuffles back out after a long while. Arthur is both taller and broader than he is, so the bottom of the hoodie hits him at mid-thigh, and only his bare toes are visible from under the pyjama bottoms. He must've at least attempted to towel his hair, too, half-dry curls standing out at odd angles.

"Come here, let me look at your face."

Mordred looks at the first aid kit on the table, then raises his eyebrows at Arthur in silent question. Fair question, though—their little emergency kit wouldn't be out of place in the back of an ambulance.

"We put our foot in it sometimes," Arthur replies with a shrug. He doesn't know how else to exactly explain the host of not-always-entirely-legal activities they get into. As soon as he thinks about it, he realises that he may have been just a _bit_ of a hypocrite earlier. "Sit forward a bit, let me see."

Mordred leans in, and Arthur reaches up to push his hair back, looking at the cut on his forehead. It isn't stitches-deep, thankfully, but it's still nothing to be scoffed at. A fresh bloom of bruising is already starting to form around it. Arthur daubs a bit of antiseptic on the cut, then carefully smooths on sticking plasters. "Any others?" he asks as he inspects Mordred's split lip and swollen eye as best he can in the dim light.

"No. Just bruises."

"Mm." Arthur closes the kit, then looks at Mordred. Beneath all those 'just bruises,' he looks thin, drawn, and tired. "When's the last time you slept?" he asks and gets a small shrug in reply. "Hell. Come on. You can sleep in my room."

Mordred tenses up like a startled rabbit. "I-I can sleep on the sofa…"

"Not on that sofa, you can't. Pretty sure that thing's a torture device with upholstery on. Come on, it's fine. I can go share with Merlin and Freya."

That earns him a long look, one he can't entirely read. "So you all really are…?"

His voice trails off, but Arthur recognises the question all the same. "Yeah, we are. Is that a problem?"

"No. No, it isn't." Mordred's voice is softer. "That sounds…nice. Goodnight."

"Goodnight." He shuffles into Arthur's bedroom, then turns back to look at him. "Arthur?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

Arthur nods. "No problem," he murmurs, and waits until the bedroom door clicks shut before going to claim whatever sleep he can still get.

He wakes up to someone poking him in the shoulder with a sharp-nailed finger, and he rolls over with a grunt, opening one eye. "Wh't?"

"Someone's in your room, and there's a towel in the bathroom that smells like blood. Who's here and why are they hurt?" Freya demands, leaning over him so close that he's going a bit cross-eyed trying to look at her.

"Mordred," he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of a hand. "Gana called me last night to come get him."

"Why?"

"Good question." He yawns and tugs at the blankets she'd accumulated on her side of the bed. "Some shite about the Council's business, won't tell."

Freya jabs at him again. "Why is he _here?"_

Sighing, he rolls all the way over onto his back, pushing himself up to sit up against the headboard. She's on all fours on the bed, having crawled over Merlin's still-sleeping form—he's too used to her to wake up so easily—staring at him with that same amber-eyed intensity. Arthur yawns and rubs at his face with one hand. "He asked for me to come get him, so I went." He narrows his eyes at her. "I'm not kicking him out."

She leans back, nose twitching, then glances at the bedroom wall, the one shared with Arthur's room. "Fine, but tell him to keep his hands off my towel. Necromancers smell like formaldehyde," she says primly, then climbs off the bed—climbing _over_ Arthur, planting sharp knees against some very soft parts.

"Right." Arthur rubs at his thighs. "Well, guess I'm up." Yawning, he pushes the blankets back and finds a pair of jeans in the general disarray of the room, what Merlin calls his 'organised chaos.' When he shuffles over into his own room, Mordred is curled up in a tight ball, his back pressed into the corner. "Hey. Kiddo." Leaning over the bed, he lays a hand on his shoulder.

Mordred gasps awake, his arm jerking in a flash of steel, and Arthur yanks his hand back before he loses a finger, catching the young man's wrist in his. "Jesus _fuck,_ kid, why the fuck are you sleeping with a box cutter?" Arthur demands. If he'd been anyone else, anyone not used to looking for weapons, he probably would've gotten cut.

"They took my dagger," Mordred replies in a soft voice, strangely blank.

"Why would you be sleeping with _that?_ Drop it."

Mordred's hand opens, and the box cutter falls to the bedspread with a soft thump. Arthur takes it with his free hand before letting go of Mordred's wrist, retracting the blade before tucking it in his pocket. In the cool half-light from the curtained window, the bruises look darker and Mordred looks paler, eyes wide and a bit too glassy for Arthur's liking. He eases himself down to sit on the edge of the bed, aware of how Mordred's gaze follows him. "What happened to you?" he murmurs. "Why'd you have that?"

"I…" Mordred sits up and presses further back into the corner, pulling his knees up to his chest, hugging his legs to him. The position makes him look vulnerable, young, and the too-big clothes don't help. "I can't tell you."

"More shite about that Council-on-high of yours?" Arthur demands with a spike of annoyance.

Mordred's gaze flicks up to his, peering over his knees. His eyes are pale, but they can't decide what colour they are—grey, green, or blue. "The Council…they keep their secrets. We're not allowed to tell, and if we do, they'll make sure we don't tell anyone else, ever," he murmurs. "We can't even speak their names. Names have power."

Arthur feels his irritation cooling, something like unease taking its place, coiled up slimy and uninviting in the pit of his belly.

"Something…happened," Mordred says after a span of heartbeats. "I can't tell you, but…I've been removed from the Guild. I'm no longer tethered to Morgana. I'm not welcome in their circles." He rubs his hands over his arms and winces as he presses against some of his various injuries.

"Is that what that's from?" Arthur asks. "A…warning? Helping you out the door?"

"No, it's…part of the reason why it happened. I don't…can we stop talking about this, please?" He rubs both hands over his arms again. "Can I have my knife back?"

"Yes and no. You're so damn twitchy you'll stab yourself." Arthur moves back off the bed and stands, taking a step back to give him room. "Come on. You hungry?"

Mordred is still for a heartbeat, but then he uncurls from the corner and stands up, pulling his hood up. Arthur heads out to the kitchen, letting the kid follow him. Freya's already dressed, her shower-damp hair in two braids that go all the way up the back of her head; she casts a sideways glance at Mordred as he walks in but doesn't say anything, resuming smacking at the coffeemaker to coax it into working.

"Tea or coffee? If you want coffee, just so you know, she thinks if you can't stand a spoon in it, it isn't strong enough," Arthur adds, jerking his thumb at Freya.

"I…coffee's fine." Mordred looks around the kitchen, their collection of mismatched chairs, then pulls out one of the stools at the breakfast bar. He resumes that same curled-up position he had in the bedroom, pulling his legs up to rest his heels on the edge of the seat, hugging his shins.

Arthur can feel Freya tense beside him as he takes down a mug from the cabinet and side-eyes her. She's eyeing Mordred, too, and she more than any of them responds to body language, and he might as well be holding up a flashing sign declaring him vulnerable, an easy target. When her gaze goes back to Arthur, some of the wariness has gone out of her, and there's no edge to her tone when she asks, "Eggs, kid? I do scrambled or scrambled."

"No, thank you."

Arthur hands over the mug. "There's milk in the fridge and sugar there," he says, nodding towards the counter.

Mordred doesn't say anything, just grips the mug tight between his hands.

Sighing, Arthur reaches into his jeans and pulls out the box cutter, reaching over to tuck it into the pocket of the hoodie. Tight as Mordred's pulled in on himself, there's not much room, so he more just wedges it against his leg. Still, the tense line of Mordred's back eases a little, one hand going to curl around it. "You should eat. I've got some painkillers for those, but you aren't getting them on an empty stomach," he murmurs, nodding towards Mordred's spectrum of bruises.

Mordred might've nodded or he might've just been shifting on the stool. He lowers one leg and lifts the mug; the face he makes after the first sip is worth a photo.

"Warned you. Don't burn yourself." Arthur goes to start helping Freya with breakfast. It's something they usually do when they're the first ones awake. He isn't the best cook, but he's determined not to be the only other person in this flat who can't fix a basic meal (the first person having a name that begins with _G_ and ends with _waine)_ so he's been doing his best to learn. Still, with Freya at the helm, he's pretty much left to turn the bacon and butter the toast.

The smell of grease and coffee brings the others out of their rooms one at a time with much yawning and eye-rubbing, taking chairs at the table. Gwaine is last to join them, hair standing on end; he bypasses his chair, sits on Percival, and faceplants into the tabletop. "Coffee."

Arthur sets Gwaine's mug in front of him. "Nice hair, monkey boy."

"Fuck you."

"You couldn't handle me."

They're fixing up plates and mugs when the door locks rattle, and Mordred goes tense all over again, gripping the box cutter. "Settle," Freya says, not unkindly. "It's Lance. The pard called last night, one of the kittens needed babysitting."

That would explain why he wasn't at breakfast. Skinchangers still new to their beasts sometimes lost control, shifted without meaning to; there was always a chance of them doing serious harm, even killing someone, which was why older skinchangers acted as mentors, sort of like sponsors in AA. If they ever felt like they were on the edge, they were supposed to call the pard and have someone come get them, talk them down. Their pard rotated numbers on the emergency contact list.

Whoever Lance had been babysitting, it must've been an all-night job. He looks like he something scraped off the sidewalk, his clothes rumpled and hair uncombed, wearing his sunglasses even though the sun's barely come up. Gwen pushes an empty chair out with one foot; Lance drops into it, takes off his glasses, and tosses them down on the table, rubbing at his eyes. Usually, they're brown, a deep warm darkness, but the day or two preceding and following the full moon, they change colour, turn the green-gold of his beast.

"Have you slept yet?" Gwen asks, reaching over to smooth down his hair with gentle fingers.

"No." Lance reaches for the coffeepot, but Arthur snags the handle and slides it further away, giving him a pointed look. Rolling his eyes but smiling, Lance changes trajectory, taking a slice of bacon from the plate instead. Once he's eaten two more pieces, Arthur relinquishes the coffeepot and sits back. It's testament to just how long he must've been awake that Lance only puts a single spoonful of sugar into his coffee. "So, did someone not like the natural arrangement of your face or did you slip in the bath?" he asks after the first long drink. Chartreuse eyes cut over to Mordred, one brow arching.

Mordred pulls his other leg back up onto the seat with him, hooking an elbow around his shin.

Arthur kicks Lance under the table, none-too-gently.

Lance looks at him for a long moment, then slides his gaze back over to Mordred. "If you'll want painkillers, you'll want to eat first. Stuff's strong enough for me, it'll knock you on your arse," he says before draining off his mug and getting up. "Shower?"

"I'll come with you." Leon pushes back from the table. "I've got work in an hour."

Lance makes a sound like he wants to die. "Work. Bollocks. Freya—?"

"I'll cover your shift. Go to bed."

As the others start dispersing, begrudgingly getting ready for their day, Arthur starts stacking up the dishes in the sink. That's one of the few good things about working security—things didn't get lively until after dark. Out the corner of his eye, he sees Mordred uncurling from his perch, standing up to bring over his mug, also empty. "You're a stronger man than me, drinking Freya's coffee straight," he muses.

Mordred doesn't say anything, just reaches out to pick at the pieces of bacon left on one of the plates.

"Your bruises look better. Here, let me see." Arthur reaches out to touch the boy's chin, tilting his head towards him. The swelling's gone down around his black eye and cut lip, and the edges of his bruises might look a little closer to the green-yellow of healing. "Are you lily?" he muses; Mordred blinks at him. "I mean, are you straight human?"

"As far as I know. I tried a healing charm, though."

Arthur nods, looking at Mordred's hands, lifting the edge of his sleeve a little to look at the arm underneath. Scraped knuckles, more bruises, a distinct pattern of fingers in them. A part of him still wants to ask what the hell happened to end up with him being beaten so badly. He's halfway tempted to take the kid to a hospital, make sure he isn't bleeding internally or has busted something important. Still, he swallows the questions back. The more he presses, the more Mordred will withdraw. There's one question he can ask, though. "Why did you ask Gana to call me?"

Mordred looks up at him with wide eyes, surprised. "What?"

"Last night, she told me that you asked for me to come get you. Why me?" He and Mordred aren't exactly strangers. He's met the kid before, a few times, and Gana's talked about him some, but Arthur wouldn't call them friends, certainly not _come-pick-me-up-I've-just-been-jumped_ friends.

Mordred doesn't answer at first, those pale colour-changing eyes shifting away from him. Shifts his weight from one leg over to the other. Picks at the frayed edge of the hoodie's sleeves. "I…I wanted to be safe," he murmurs, then bites his lip hard enough to surely hurt. "I know I don't have the right to ask that of you, I'll leave if you—"

Arthur pulls him forward into a hug. He's shite with words, always has been, but he's good at this, at least. And he knows all-too-well what Mordred means, what that feels like, always being afraid and not wanting to be. He remembers it himself.

Mordred is tense against him for a heartbeat, but then the starch goes out of him with a soft noise that might've been a sob. He leans his weight into Arthur, face burrowed into his neck.

Arthur rubs a hand over his back, the other resting on the back of his hair, waiting until the tremors subside a little. "You aren't going anywhere," he murmurs.

"I can stay?"

"Yeah." Arthur squeezes him, gently. "You can stay."


End file.
